


Distract Them

by chocolatechipcumbercookie (labelleplume)



Series: The Distraction of Sherlock Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kidnapping, Mystery, Sex, Smut, Torture, Violence, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelleplume/pseuds/chocolatechipcumbercookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This the final story in the Distraction trilogy.  "You're" engaged to Sherlock Holmes, happy together, working cases along with his best friend John Watson.  A series of kidnappings arise that puzzle the three of you and you work to figure it out.  But it goes wrong, you become the next victim and then it's a race against the clock.  Can you free yourself?  Will Sherlock find you?  You've undergone tests with him before, but this is by far the most formidable.  Will you pass it?  Or will it break the two of you apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distract Them

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize to those of you who read this story and notice strange spellings and random letters and punctuation. When I posted the story, initially it was fine but then the formatting and substance of the work text got all messed up. I believe I have fixed all of it but I'm sure that I missed a few here and there. Anyway, I just wanted to warn you of that so you don't think I'm incompetent at English. :)

“Really?” John asks, “That’s what he got you?”

“What?” you laugh, “I like it.” You lift up your left hand to show off the rather unusual engagement ring.

“It’s simple; he knows I hate flashy jewelry,” you say, admiring the plain silver band, “And practical.” At that you slide it off your finger and unfold the lock pick hidden in the side of the ring.

“See?”

“That’s brilliant,” John grins ruefully, taking the ring from you to look at it, “I still think he should’ve had at least one small stone on it. But what do I know about how Sherlock should conduct his romances?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, striding in from the other room. He smiles at you warmly and teases John, “That’s why she’s marrying me and not you.” You blush and lean up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

“Good morning,” you murmur.

“For us perhaps, but unfortunately not for them,” Sherlock gestures towards the wall where photographs and case files are pinned up. You peer closer at them, reading the details.

“Four disappearances? Kidnappings? Not sure. And they’re all young women, 20s mostly, early 30s at the latest. Fairly ordinary, had stable but commonplace jobs. Lived alone, vanished from their homes, no sign of a forced entry. Odd,” you say quizzically.

“What’s more odd than the women disappearing without a forced entry?” John asks.

“Well, if there’s no forced entry, that would indicate that they trusted the kidnapper. But there’s nothing linking any of these women to each other. So who would be the common denominator? How would they all know the same person?” you explain, following your train of thought.

“A nice attempt but incorrect in its conclusion. You assume that that the reason the women trust the kidnapper is because they all know him, or her I suppose but statistically it’s more likely to be a man. Regardless, remember the case I worked on when I first met you John?” Sherlock states somewhat condescendingly but you know he doesn’t try to be. He turns to John.

“What? Oh yes, the serial killer cabbie,” John replies, then a lightbulb goes off in his head, “Oooh, you’re saying that the reason the women trust the kidnapper could be that they trust the role or position the kidnapper is impersonating. That’s quite clever actually.”

“We need to get their records, see if they had any repairmen visit, or if they all ordered pizza,” Sherlock instructs, eyes still scanning the evidence.

“Shouldn’t those be in the case files?” you query.

“Not necessarily. Our police force isn’t exactly the most capable of thinkers, nor would they necessarily consider it of any importance and therefore leave it out of the case files,” he informs you.

“Evidence gathering this afternoon then,” John sighs but then throws his hands up with a smile, “Better get to it if we want to finish today.”

  
~

  
You do your best to comfort the grieving mother, but you can’t help but feel a little impatient. If you want to do anything to find her daughter you need details, which was something she seemed incapable of providing you in her current emotional state.

“Mrs. Lauriston, could you please try to focus? I understand that this is hard, but if there’s any chance that you want to see your daughter again, I need to know if there were any unusual occurrences the day your daughter disappeared. Was there anything you forgot to mention to the police?” you question. Mrs. Lauriston dries her tears a bit and tries to remember.

“No, not that I can remember, it was a fairly ordinary day. She went to work by the Tube, came home, and then never showed for our dinner plans.”

“So there were no visitors to her that you can recall between the time she came home and when you realized she was gone? Not even a handyman?” you press, trying desperately to get something.

“Lisa was always a careful girl, took care of her house. There’s nothing broken that would need repairing I don’t think. She never mentioned that she had anything scheduled before dinner,” Mrs. Laurison tells you. You look around the tidy sitting room confirming Mrs. Lauriston’s story. The coffee table is cleared of any mess and through the doorway you can see a spotless kitchen. A box of holiday cookies sits next to the refrigerator.

“If I may ask, where is Mr. Lauriston?” you inquire, hoping it’s not a sensitive subject.

“Oh he’s at work in Parliament right now. Very busy schedule, he apologizes for not being able to come today.”

“Your husband is a member of Parliament?” you ask.

“Yes, not a terribly significant position, but yes he’s in Parliament,” Mrs. Lauriston replies nonchalantly. You have to try hard not to roll your eyes in exasperation. She could have mentioned this before.

“Thank you for your time Mrs. Lauriston, you’ve been most helpful.”

  
~

  
“Find anything?” you ask Sherlock and John when you meet back up for fish and chips.

“Apparently, Miss Delaney is the daughter of a rising banker,” John declares, reading off his notes, “You wouldn’t have heard of him in the news but according to his wife, he’s poised to receive a prominent position in the next few months.”

“A pattern that continues with Miss Windsor and Miss McKellen. Miss Windsor’s mother is an influential but behind the scenes engineer at her corporation while Mr. McKellen runs an industry business,” Sherlock remarks dryly between bites of fish. Normally he doesn’t eat while working a case but under your influence you’ve convinced him to take better care of his body.

“So the daughters aren’t the targets, it’s the parents. Threatening them?” you ask.

“Coercing them is more like it. Do you notice how each of the parents control different sectors of society? Someone is trying to take power. Or plan an attack of some kind…” Sherlock muses, his fingers laced beneath his chin.

“We still have no idea who’s behind the kidnappings,” John points out. You stare down at the crumbs left on your plate, spread out in a haphazard manner, trying to force them into a recognizable pattern. But like the evidence, it defies your attempts to make sense of it.

“More clues will surface,” Sherlock says confidently, “They always do.”

  
~

  
It’s been a long exhausting day and you look up in relief when the cab stops in front of your flat. A nice hot bubble bath to sooth your muscles and keep out the cold winter sounds delightful at the moment. You run up the steps, trying not to slip on any ice, and shake the snow from your hair. Your kitchen is quite cozy and the sound of a mug of water warming up in the microwave for some hot chocolate is comforting.

You’ve barely had a chance to sit down and relax when the doorbell rings. You grumble to yourself irritably, wondering when a girl can catch a break. The door opens to reveal a tiny dark-haired girl. Her curls peak out beneath a knitted hat and her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. She can’t be more than seven and she speaks with a soft, adorable voice.

“Would you like to buy some cookies to support the children’s hospital?” the girl asks and tugs her little red wagon out from behind her filled with boxes of cookies, “It’s for a good cause!” She smiles with dimples, trying to convince you to buy a box.

“Where are your parents?” you inquire, looking with concern out the door but you don’t see anyone. At your question, her smile becomes slightly forced which you think is odd. Perhaps her relationship with them isn’t very good.

“Oh they’re… around, at one of the other flats. That way we can finish quicker!” the girl starts off reluctantly then finishes brightly, her curls bouncing.

“Well okay…” you say slowly, still worried that she’s out in the snow by herself. You feel awful disappointing the girl, but you’re not really interested in cookies.

“Sorry, but I don’t really need cookies right now,” you start but the girl panics and cuts you off.

“No wait!” she cries and pulls out an open box of cookies, “Here, you can try one and see if you like it! They’re mint chocolate chip flavored.”

“Mint chocolate chip?” you ask, softening a bit, “Okay I’ll try one.” You take a cookie from her and take a bite, watching as the girl becomes visibly relieved.

“Wow! These are delicious! I’ll take a box alright? Just let me go grab my wallet,” you promise, munching on the cookie. You couldn’t possibly let the little girl leave empty-handed. The girl steps inside, sheltering from the cold and you walk back towards your purse on the kitchen counter. As you walk, you feel suddenly woozy and you clutch at your head with your hands.

“Whaa… what did you do to me?” you ask disorientedly, falling to the floor. The effort required to turn to look back at the door is enormous but you turn anyway. Your vision starts to flicker but you can just make out the shapes of dark hooded men coming through the door behind the girl. She looks at you with tears in her eyes. The girl seems a bit broken.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. It’s the last thing you hear, then everything goes black.

  
~

  
When you awake, your head is pounding and you can barely focus your eyes on your hands in front of you. Talking is beyond you; your tongue feels thick and has a disgusting aftertaste stuck on it. The springs dig into your back through the thin mattress on the miserable excuse of a cot that they, whoever “they” are, put you on. You try to sit up but your head starts to spin and you have to put your head between your legs to prevent yourself from throwing up. When you’ve finally gained some control over yourself, you explore your cell.

It’s freezing down here. The men took you as you were in your house: no coat, no scarf, and no boots. Your socks provide a poor barrier between you and the ice-cold cement floor and you start to shiver violently. At least you have your sweater and jeans, although you’re not sure how well they insulate your body heat. A rough, itchy blanket lies folded at the foot of your cot but you drape it thankfully around yourself. So your kidnappers don’t want you to freeze to death, but they’re not terribly concerned about your comfort. You’re not sure whether to be relieved about that fact, or wary because that makes their plans for you unpredictable. Perhaps both.

A small window provides some light but it’s still dim. Frost covers the edges, and looking out you can only see more of the inside of the mysterious building within which you’re now imprisoned. Hearing you move about, a man looks in. If you were hoping for kindness from that quarter, it becomes obvious none would be forthcoming. Thinking of the dark hooded figures that haunt your drug fogged memories, you expect this man to be the same. But he’s not so much dark and hazy as he is harsh and metallic. A streak of silver lightning runs through his hair, complementing the jagged scar over his eye. He dresses with clean lines, reminiscent of a well-tailored suit, but applied to a more casual button down paired with dark jeans.

“Awake now are we? My little prize songbird,” he smiles at you. His voice is warm, and would lull you into a false sense of security if it weren’t for the shiver that ran down your spine when you met his piercing gaze.

“Songbird?” you question suspiciously.

“They’re rather curious creatures don’t you think? Every morning a cacophony of birdsong. Some birds sing the same song over and over for you, hoping to please, desperately twittering out the few notes they know. And some sing exactly what you want to hear, whistling each sweet note into your ear. Which of the two are you?” he tests. You glare at him for a moment.

“Neither,” you reply.

“Silent birds are useless to me,” he warns.

“I don’t have to sing to be useful to you. You wouldn’t have snatched me from my home otherwise,” you bluff, not really sure why you’re here at all. At that he smiles wickedly, and suddenly you’re wary that you overstepped.

“True, but pain is a powerful motivator.”

  
~

  
The air blasts from your lungs in a shrill cry. You’re long past the point of trying to be stoic. Time is all relative. Minutes, seconds, even, become an eternity when the white hot iron touches you. The chains holding your hands above your head used to be restraints. Now, they’re the only thing keeping you upright, supporting your weight when your legs gave out. The constant chafing has rubbed your skin raw. A thin rivulet of blood snakes its way down your arm. The steady sound of dripping is the only thing that allows you to count time passing.

The worst part, is that you went into this thinking you were going to be brave, protecting precious information. He hasn’t asked you a single question. You don’t even know what to call him. He’s become a nameless source of mind numbing fear, the sound of his approaching footsteps causes you to cringe into the wall but it offers no relief. The man with the silver lighting in his hair seems content to watch you break first, then take his sweet time asking you questions when you’re only too willing to answer if only the pain would stop. He’ll keep pushing and pushing you to the brink, testing your limits, seeing where you start to fracture, until you’d be willing to do anything for a reprieve.

No, that’s your body talking. Your mind is stronger. Sherlock taught you that and you must protect him. Then the nameless man throws alcohol on your wounds and every thought is driven from your mind as your vision whites out and every burn is seared into your memory. A high pitched noise, you can’t even call it a sound it’s so inhuman, ricochets off the walls of the cell and bounces off the insides of your skull. It’s making your head hurt and you’re not sure where it’s coming from until you start coughing up red droplets and you realize you’ve screamed your throat raw.

Grime and dirt covers you, providing at least a modicum of modesty. What’s almost worse than the pain is your complete helplessness. Your jeans are ragged and torn but they still cling to you and hide you from others’ eyes. The sweater you were once wearing is another story. Ripped off your back, they started not with physical torture, but psychological. There was nothing to hide your breasts from the men’s hungry stares and nothing to prevent their crude comments from reaching your ears. Sherlock’s gaze on your body made you feel powerful, but exposed to these men you’ve never felt so violated in your life. You never want to be touched ever again.

The iron has cooled to a glowing cherry red so the nameless man heats it back up, turns it slowly until it’s evenly white. The room is dimly lit, and it’s too coincidental for you to believe it’s by accident. Your eyes strain to see what’s happening around you, but the only time you can see is when the branding iron lights up the surroundings with its pain inducing heat. He approaches you with the contorted metal rod and you shrink away, but only so far before the chains yank you back towards the man and you whimper as your wrists start to bleed more profusely. You can feel the scorching temperature even before it touches your skin and then your back feels like it’s been burned by the sun. The all consuming pain jolts every limb in your body, shorting out your nervous system. He twists the rod into your skin and you can only cough because your vocal cords are too damaged to scream. The smell of burning flesh fills the air, choking you with its stench and you begin to have dry heaves from the nausea. The nameless man circles behind you, surveying your ruined frame.

“I consider myself to be quite the artist,” he comments, mockingly assuming the critnc’s pose with one hand stroking his face, “Yes I think that did it, the piece was missing something before. I’ve always thought the human body was the best canvas to work with. All the work needed was my signature, permanently charred into your skin.”

The nameless man puts down the iron for a moment. For the first time, he asks a question.

“What you know about Sherlock Holmes?” Sucking up all the blood coagulating in your mouth you spit directly into his face. Slowly taking a white handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes his face clean. For a moment you think he’s going to slap you. But he turns to the woman waiting in the corner, “Tend to her.” Then he leaves.

The woman approaches. She’s the one kind soul in this entire godforsaken prison. Her name is Scarlett. Scarlett cleans you up after each session, preventing infection of your wounds and unbeknownst to her, ruling out death as an escape. She talks to you quietly sometimes, attempting to soothe you in what little ways she can. In the beginning you responded to her kindness, but now you care more about conserving your strength than sharing meaningless conversations with her. She may not be cruel, but she’s still one of them.

You wonder what Sherlock must be thinking, if he’s looking for you, if he’s coming to save you. Perhaps he is, but it’s been so long you fear that by the time he does arrive, it’ll be too late. You’re so far gone, there’s little you can do to control your own fate at this point. But sometimes, fate intervenes.

Scarlett notices discoloration in the sores opening on your wrists. She takes out a key and unlocks the shackles, catching you and lowering you slowly to the floor when you fall. Scarlett gently presses a wet cloth to the open wounds, hushing your small cries of pain. You lie there, supposedly faking your helplessness and pain when most of it is real, mustering your continually diminishing strength. As soon as Scarlett finishes tending to your wrists, you snap your fist back, and punch her in the temple. She sinks to the floor silently, knocked out cold.

Finally free, you grit your teeth against the pain and try to stand. Your breath rushes out in a huff but you manage to get on your feet. You’re hobbling and unsteady, but able to move. Scarlett is wearing a warm coat that you strip off of her. You feel guilty leaving the woman unconscious on the cold floor with only her thin sweater to warm her, but your situation is far more dire. Pulling the coat on, you bite your lip in an extreme effort to keep from screaming when even the soft fur lining brushes the burns on your back.

The door to your cell is locked. Usually a guard comes back to let Scarlett out in a half hour to give her time to work on you. Twisting the engagement ring on your finger, the lock pick pops out and you smile for the first time since you were kidnapped. It came in handy after all.  The pick jimmies the lock open easily and the door swings slightly.

You push it outward gradually, peaking into the hallway. Your luck holds, and it’s empty. With walking being a struggle for you, fighting is definitely not within your capabilities at this moment. Limping along the hallway, you duck into an alcove when you hear footsteps approaching. A couple of the members of the organization that snatched you walk obliviously by. You hurry on, systematically checking each passageway for an exit.

Finally you meet a dead end. But when you turn to retreat back to the main hallway, you hear footsteps again. Scarlett turns the corner. She’s holding a cold compress to her head, but when she sees you standing there, she freezes. You’re poised in a fight or flight position, trying to make a split second decision whether to engage Scarlett again or try to run and escape her. Either choice has almost nonexistent odds of success. When you punched her before, you had the element of surprise. Not only are you now lacking that, you’re already holding your side because each breath is a spike of pain in your lung. Running would be a short and disastrous attempt.

Staring at her with desperation clear in your eyes, you’re about to make a move, when you hear another set of footsteps and both you and Scarlett turn simultaneously. Then she spins back towards you and hisses, “Quick! In here!” before touching an unseen switch in the wall and disappearing down a hidden tunnel.

You hesitate a moment, unsure whether to trust her, but the approaching threat makes the decision for you and you rush after her. Scarlett swings the door shut behind you noiselessly. She searches blindly in the dark for something behind the door then clicks on a flashlight.

“What are you doing?” you ask confusedly.

“I couldn’t bear to see you get caught again. I just couldn’t,” Scarlett pleads, “I want to help you escape. This tunnel leads out of the compound. I can guide you, and get you help once we reach the outside.” You watch her face as she makes her little announcement and she seems sincere enough. Although you’re still wary of her, you’re in no position to be picky about your allies.

“Alright, how do we get out of here?”

  
~

  
A day after your escape with Scarlett, and your strength finally gives out. The adrenaline has faded and even the thought of Sherlock isn’t enough to keep you going. Despite Scarlett’s ministrations and aid, you need a hospital. Quickly. So she carries you, feeds you, and never complains. For reasons you cannot fathom, Scarlett has made it her sole mission to save you.

She sets you down against the tunnel walls for a few minutes, letting you rest. You squeeze her hand gently and Scarlett returns the gesture.

“Thank you,” you croak, your throat still raw and healing. She slumps down next to you, breathing a bit hard from the effort of carrying you. In that respect, perhaps being starved wasn’t such a bad thing. If you were still carrying all the weight you lost, Scarlett probably wouldn’t be able to lift you. Although, if you didn’t have every bone in your body sticking out of your frame at ghastly angles like a skeleton, you probably would’ve been able to walk yourself.

“You have an interesting ring,” Scarlett comments, “Where did you get it?” It takes you a moment to collect yourself.

“It was given to me. It’s an engagement ring,” you smile halfheartedly, “Sherlock and I are supposed to be getting married.” You wince as another shard of pain stabs your body. The smile fades from your face.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see that day.” Scarlett looks at you in surprise.

“I didn’t know you and Sherlock were engaged. It makes so much more sense now why they kidnapped you.”

“Not many people knew,” you shrug your shoulders, “It was supposed to be a small event, Sherlock doesn’t like crowds of people very much. Small and private, our little secret.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you get married, ok?” Scarlett promises you. She ducks under your arm and supports you as you get up again.

After about an hour the end of the tunnel comes in sight and you hobble towards it gratefully. Scarlett presses yet another invisible switch and the door opens. You step through into another room of the compound and then the exit door is straight ahead. You’re about to turn to Scarlett and let out a sigh of relief when all hell breaks loose.

Sherlock and John burst through the door, guns raised. The nameless man and five of his henchmen step out of the shadows. You start towards Sherlock but find yourself being dragged backward by someone with a fistful of your hair. You shriek in pain but cut it off quickly when a knife appears at your throat. The room that was so recently full of action comes to a complete stop. When you clear your eyes, you see one of the henchman shot dead on the floor, another knocked unconscious. Sherlock and John have their guns trained on the remainder. Scarlett managed to grab the nameless man and holds a gun to his head. Sherlock has his eyes locked on you. He blanches, and you realize that he knows exactly how badly you’re hurt. You can’t hide that amount of pain from his deductive skills.

The nameless man is gasping slightly and Scarlett presses the gun to his head harder. Thank God for Scarlett, we would be in so much trouble without her. Sherlock shifts his gaze from you to her, eyes narrowing.

“Let. Her. Go.” she hisses into the nameless man’s ear.

“You wouldn’t,” he says shakily. Scarlett clicks off the safety.

“You think?” she threatens. A few tense seconds pass, then they both visibly relax their stances. Scarlett loosens her grip.

“You can stop pretending to be scared now Brother.” She aims her gun at Sherlock and the nameless man trains his gun on John.

“Brother?” you ask in disbelief.

“Oh yes, he helps me run this whole operation,” she smirks at you. The helpful nurse attitude is gone, the mild demeanor common of service people shed now that her disguise is no longer needed.

“ _You’re_ in charge?” you gape at her in shock. Scarlett ignores you and turns her attention to Sherlock.

“Sherlock love, it’s so nice to see you. I was wondering if you’d fall for my little trap. But then, you couldn’t resist if the bait was your very own _fiance_.” The nameless man turns to look at Sherlock. Sherlock blinks quickly at John. _Go, I’ll distract them._ Then he captures their attention once more.

“The kidnapped girls?” he asks.

“Breadcrumbs for you to follow. Do you really think I couldn’t organize an attack without all that trouble? I have bankers, politicians, engineers, and programmers all over already tucked away in my pocket. Coercing them into doing what I want is a thing of the past, when I was first getting started,” she smiles coldly at Sherlock.

“The cookies… of course. And we didn’t notice the kidnapped little girl before because she didn’t fit the profile of the other women,” Sherlock realizes, “That’s how you managed to abduct them all.”

“Correct again. Your powers of deduction astound me Mr. Holmes,” Scarlett says mockingly, “Now let me make this clear. You’re in my way. Most people in my way tend to uh… _disappear_ shall we say? The only reason why you have not done so is because you intrigue me Sherlock, and that is a rare occurrence indeed.”

“How exactly, do I intrigue you,” Sherlock queries, head tilted. Whatever she would’ve answered is interrupted as John tackles the nameless man to the ground and holds his gun to his head. John kicks the nameless man’s gun to Sherlock who stops it with his ft w.

“Let me make _this_ clear,” he says to Scarlett, no sign of mercy apparent in his voice, “You will let her go, or John will kill your brother.”

“Go ahead. Shoot him, and she dies,” she shrugs a shoulder, “Hurt him in any way, and she dies.”

“I have no compunctions about killing him.”

“True, and I’m sure it would give you an infinite amount of satisfaction to take your revenge on the man who put your dear wife-to-be in this state,” Scarlett adopts a sing-song voice at the end, then her voice is ice-cold again, “But she’ll still be dead. And no amount of revenge will ever bring her back. So what would you rather have, hmm? Your fiance, or revenge?” Sherlock shifts his grip on his gun, unyielding, but refusing to tell John to shoot.

“Put down the guns boys, or she dies. In three… two…” she starts counting down.

“Alright!” Sherlock exclaims, “Alright… We’re putting our weapons down now.” Sherlock and John slowly drop their weapons and kneel on the floor. Scarlett laughs.

“That’s better now isn’t it?” She paces around them and stops behind Sherlock. Scarlett leans down next to his ear.

“You asked me how do you intrigue me? Not do, _did_. I thought you were brilliant, but apparently not as much as the hype suggests. Unfortunately for you, that means you no longer interest me.”

She straightens and shoots him directly in the head.

“SHERLOCK!” John yells.

“NO!” you scream and in the infinite moment it takes for the bullet to imbed itself into that genius brain, snap his head back, in the time it takes for him to thud to the ground, you find your strength again. There is only one thought in your mind, one driving force. _Distract them._ You twist the arm of the man holding you, ignoring the slash of pain across your side as he grapples with you. _Save Sherlock._ He doesn’t stand a chance against your desperation and you stab him in the chest. _Distract them._ The room bursts into action. _Divert the danger._ You pull the knife free and throw it at the nameless man, feeling a brief moment of satisfaction as you watch it sink into his back and he coughs up blood before falling. _Distract them._ John lunges for his gun and his military training kicks in. He fires off three shots in succession, taking out the remaining people, including Scarlett. He shoots her between the eyes. The expression of shock remains stamped on her face.

Both of you run to Sherlock. John cradles his head where blood is still pooling out.

_Save him._

“Oh God…” you gasp. John checks his pulse.

“He’s still alive! Barely, but alive.” He pulls Sherlock’s scarf off and uses it to staunch the blood flow, tying it around his head. John pulls out his phone, “Lestrade? We need an ambulance, NOW.”

The words start to go fuzzy, like they’re coming from afar. Everything in the room blurs and you can’t seem to focus your eyes. You slip to the floor, clutching at your side, which you suddenly notice is warm. With adrenaline no longer keeping you going, you feel the throbing pain. Your hands come away red.

“John…” you whisper but he doesn’t hear you, tending to Sherlock as he is, “John!”  He looks up at you, then goes pale.

“I think I’ve been stabbed," you explain, your voice weak. He leaves Sherlock and runs to you, stripping off his shirt and pressing it to your wound. You start to lose consciousness, a sweet feeling of bliss stealing over you slowly. Vision fading, your awareness flickering in and out, you’re tempted to let go. A snapping noise brings you briefly back to reality. John is snapping his fingers in front of your eyes.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_ die on me! Do you hear me?” he chokes out, "You are not leaving! I won't let you. I will save you. You are the best bloody thing that has ever happened to Sherlock. You and I, we’re the most important people in the world to him. Just the two of us. And I will NOT let you leave him here. He’s going to pull through okay?” Your eyes roll a bit and you’re having difficulty understanding everything he’s saying.

“I’m not going to let him die, and I’m not going to let you die. If you die, I’m going to be stuck here with that miserable git and I will never be able to fill up the hole you leave behind. And it’s not just him. I will never forgive myself. You’re family. Do you understand? You and Sherlock, you’re family to me. So please… just hold on..." John pleads. You can hear the sounds of an ambulance in the background, the paramedics coming in. You slip from consciousness again, but this time it’s not sweet and blissful but more pain filled. That’s how you know it’s ok, because death would never be that uncomfortable.

  
~

  
 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

The monitor hooked up to you keeps track of your heartbeat and slowly pulls you from your sleep. John lies snoring in the hospital chair in your room. He looks worn and weary. Turning your head slowly you can see Sherlock lying in the bed next to you. The side of his head is bandaged and there are tubes taped to his face. Speaking of which, you notice you’re breathing through a mask and there’s an IV in your arm.

John yawns and stretches awake, rubbing his eyes a bit. He jolts up when he sees your eyes are open.

"You’re awake thank god!” You pulls your mask off, testing to see if you need it to breathe.

"How long was I out?” you ask confusedly.

“A week,” John sighs, "I was so worried about you.” You turn your head towards Sherlock again.

"How is he?” you croak, your voice still a bit rough.

"Sherlock… he’s in a coma. They’re not sure if he’ll wake up,” John’s voice breaks on the last part.

'He’ll wake up,” you say with a confidence you don’t really feel, "He has to.”

  
~

  
The IV treatment feeds you the nutrients denied you during your imprisonment underground. Your back is covered in bandages, but now you can move without wincing. Slowly, you’re healing, getting stronger. But Sherlock remains unconscious. It’s hard to celebrate your own progress when it’s not shared.

Today is particularly quiet. John is out at your request, it’s not healthy for him to spend all of his time at the hospital. Without his constant worried pacing, the room seems a bit empty. But now there’s no one to stop you from leaving your bed. You grab on to the side of your bed, clinging to it as you slowly make your way to the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. The sound of his breathing is beautiful, a quiet movement of air into his lungs then out again. His curls lie limp against the pillow; you comb through them trying to make it seem like he’s only sleeping and could wake up at any moment. But removing traces of his deathlike stillness seems like denial. _Well what if it is?_ you tell yourself. His eyes are closed so peacefully, with a calm you never saw in them when he was awake, you almost feel bad for disturbing him. One of his pale hands lies open on the side of the bed and you slip your fingers through his.

"Sherlock? Sherlock darling, I’m here,” you start, hoping against hope he can hear you, “Lestrade found the kidnapped women, they’re safe now. You saved me remember? You came for me in that compound. John and I… we took out the rest of the people. So I guess I saved you too. That’s what we do, save each other, over and over again. And John is always there to save the both of us.”

You laugh quietly, then look sadly at Sherlock who remains unmoved.

"I survived Sherlock. I survived the incredible humiliation, the endless starvation, the torture that was beyond words. But I can’t survive without you.”

You shake his arm slightly, trying to wake him.

"I can’t do it. I don’t know how and I could never learn to. So please… I need you. Please wake up… For me..."

You begin to weep softly and bury your face in his chest.

"I love you Sherlock.”

Normally this would be when he strokes your face and replies in kind. But your tears remain unanswered. Sherlock lies silent.

  
~

  
You’ve fallen asleep in the chair beside Sherlock again. It’s become a habit; it’s impossible for you to leave him. The days have begun to blur together. Your healing process is well on it’s way and you spend the time your body needs to rejuvenate talking to Sherlock. You tell him about your day, what you’re feeling, etc. Mostly mundane things. Sometimes you bring books to read him. The majority of them are mystery novels. You wonder if he solves the crime his head before you reach the end of the book. Probably. Your hands remain clasped together as much as possible, just feeling his warmth calms you.

On this particular day, you are startled awake by something. You sit up, tense, looking around for the cause of whatever it was that woke you. Then you feel it. The slight pressure on your fingers. You squeeze Sherlock’s hand, wondering if you’re just imagining it. A few moments pass. Then it comes again.

"Darling? Are you awake? Can you hear me?” you ask, getting ahead of yourself in your excitement. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open.

"Of course I’m awake,” Sherlock whispers faintly, "I couldn’t let you get married without me.” A grin breaks out on your face, his head can’t be too damaged if he still has his snarky sense of humor.

"Why you…” you laugh, speechless for words to describe your joy. To make up for it, you simply express it by kissing him right there on the hospital bed.

  
~

  
It’s a small chapel ceremony, but no less joyous because of it. The number of people there might be few, but they’re all of Sherlock’s and your closest friends and you know their happiness for you is genuine. Looking at Sherlock as he says his vows, unbearably handsome his tuxedo, you’re struck by realization of all the two of you had to go through to get here. For a while, you thought you’d never see this day. Which makes it all the sweeter.

"I do,” he intones, smiling at you. You echo his vows and pledge yourself to him.

"I do.”

The night is an endless loop of festivities. Food is infinite, the music is tasteful (Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stand it if it weren’t), and both of you are happy. John makes a speech as best man.

"Sherlock Holmes. Wow… you’re married,” John laughs nervously, "That’s something I never thought I’d say. But I’m glad that I do get to say that, because you of all people, deserve to be loved. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to put everything that you are into words, hoping to somehow convey to other people the many attributes that others can’t see. But I always seem to end up with, 'That’s just Sherlock’. Fortunately, everyone here knows what you’re like so I don’t have to explain. The public knows you as the great Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant consulting detective. But you’re more than a genius. You’re my best friend.”

John pauses, collecting himself. He finds this sort of stuff hard; John mostly keeps his emotions to himself.

"When we first met, I was amazed by the man who could deduce everything about me with one look. I still am, but what amazes me more now is my incredible luck. My luck that you of all people, Sherlock, the man with no friends, let me in. You let me in when I needed it most, gave me a purpose again. I was lost, half-out of my mind, limping around like a bloody cripple. And you saw something in me, I’m not sure what, that made you say 'Do you want to come?’ I ran off with you in London into the most spectacular world I’ve ever experienced. This blog,” John holds up his phone, “chronicles the best adventures I’ve had in my life. And all of them happened with this man. This amazing, wonderful man who might possibly also be the most insufferable bastard I’ve ever met.”

The guests chuckle, there isn’t one person in the room who hasn’t had to deal with Sherlock’s superior tendencies.

"But I suffer through it because you’re my best friend. And that’s what best friends do, stay with the people we love and care about even if sometimes we want to strangle them. You could put your skills to use in an infinite number of nefarious ways, instead you devote them to the common good, saving people. You’re not a doctor no, but you’ve prevented just as many murders as lives I’ve saved.”

"In my humble opinion, that makes you a hero. I know you don't believe in them, but you are my hero. I believed in you when no one else did, and you never failed me. You came back from the dead for me. And you’ve saved me, in more ways than one. You will forever be one of the most important people in the world to me and I will always be there for you. Mrs. Holmes,” he says looking at you with a smile. He knows that you love hearing that title; it makes the wedding seem more real and not just an illusion.

"You make Sherlock light up like no one else I’ve ever seen. He always seems to solve cases a bit faster when you’re there in an effort to impress you. Sherlock has found himself one of the loveliest and kindest women that I have ever met. And you’ve found a man to match you in all the best qualities. The way you look at each other,” John pauses and turns to you, "makes me believe in true love more than anything else I’ve seen. So to both of you! May you have a long and happy marriage.”

The room is in tears by the time John finishes. He blushes a bit, embarrassed before sitting down. Sherlock seems to be in shock, but he recovers and gives John a hug. You smile, happy that the two of you have such a reliable friend.

The room is quiet, all eyes are on you in the center of the dance floor as you wait for the music to start. You glance down, a bit nervous, but Sherlock catches your chin and you look at him, immediately relaxing. He won't let you miss a step. The first notes drift across the floor and Sherlock adjusts his grip on your waist before beginning to dance. The deep cello sends out low tones slowly, awakening the piece from its slumber. The piano adds its soft chords and he spins you gradually. Then the violin joins the trio, weaving its melody through the accompanying instruments. You wish you could have Sherlock play, but he can’t play violin and dance with you at the same time. Regardless, you can hear him in the beat, feel him in the rhythm. The piece is his gift to you. A memory of the slow beginning, the admiration from afar. The music pauses poignantly, at the edge of a cliff, then starts up exuberantly at a much faster pace. You can hardly catch your breath as Sherlock twirls you in and out of his arms, coming hairsbreadth close before drawing away again. The pull he exerts on you, surrounding you with his influence, reminiscent of the violent explosion of passion. You dance fiercely back, matching his movements with steps of your own. Not mirroring, the two of you complement the other without copying. The music slows, mellowing out as your relationship stables. The piano contributes a faint voice high on the keys, like an angel’s song. The happiness of your wedding floods through you all at once as Sherlock leans you back, the last notes drawing out. If only the music would never end.

  
~

  
You arrive at the hotel fairly late. Travel was long, but fortunately you managed to get some sleep on the plane so you’re not too tired. The start of your honeymoon should be cause for excitement, and you suppose that’s what the nervous energy inside of you is. But you can’t help but look at the hotel with a bit of apprehension. It’s spring. Not chilly enough for a coat, but cool enough to warrant a sweater. You loved your wedding dress, that beautiful white flowing gown all packed up safely now back home, but you’re glad to be back in regular clothes. It makes you feel more comfortable, prepared. It’s difficult to run in a long dress.

You head up to the room while Sherlock handles affairs down at the check-in. The key card slots in and the door opens with a click. It’s a simple enough room. You were never one to enjoy fancy resorts. The constant stream of tourists make both of you feel claustrophobic. The only important thing about this room is the bed which is a nice king-size. The rest of it is unimportant, because all of your time will be spent either in bed or out in the world. Not watching television.

You curl up under the sheets waiting for Sherlock to come up, and just stare at the wall. The quiet, which usually soothes you, is unnerving. Finally, you hear the door being unlocked as Sherlock comes in. He hangs up his coat and leaves his shoes in the closet. Sherlock lies down next to you with a sigh of relief.

“Here at last,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up into a small smile. You return the gesture, feeling a tiny bit more at ease with him there. But it doesn't entirely dispel the feeling. The two of you lie there a moment, just taking in each other’s presence.

"It’s too late to go anywhere, but not so late that I’m tired. I thought maybe…” Sherlock trails off as he rolls over to face you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You let him, but don’t move closer. He cups your cheek and kisses your lips softly, trying to entice a response. You move your mouth to his slightly, just barely reaching for him. You work a hand free of the sheets, running your fingertips across his jawline. The disquiet within you recedes briefly.

But when Sherlock does go remove your sweater, you don’t think, you just react, reflexes. Jolting away, you roll up in the sheets again, unable to explain why you did what you just did. You want Sherlock, you want to keep going, but you can’t overcome the overwhelming feeling of _wrongness._

"What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know, I just… can’t,” you reply, your voice catching in your throat. He reaches out to comfort you but his touch is disturbing. The memories don’t bleed through slowly, they take over your mind. The sights, the sounds, the feelings, screech at you all wanting your attention at once. You claw at your head, just wanting them to go away. Scenes flash before your eyes, searing the illusion into them so that the hotel room seems less real than the hallucination. You hear someone calling your name.

"Listen to me. Listen to the sound of my voice. It’s not real. Just breathe.” You take a deep breath, following Sherlock’s instructions.

"Good, that’s it. Take a deep breath, then breath out. Calm down. It’s all in your mind.” Opening your eyes, you see Sherlock kneeling by the side of the bed in front of you. His hands are held cautiously up, and you shy away from them.

"What did they do to you?” he asks in quiet horror, "Why don’t you trust me?”

"It’s not you,” you plead, "I promise. Just, when you touch me, when you look at me that way… I just _can’t._ ”

"Close your eyes,” Sherlock commands, “Now, instead of letting the memories attack you unawares, I’m going to help you face them. Let them through.” The wall in your mind shatters, and then you’re there. You’re back there in the cell. It’s dark and you can’t see anything. All you can hear is Sherlock’s voice. He’s there with you.

"You fear the uncertainty in the darkness. Light the cell.”

"How?” you ask, the fear closing in upon you.

"You know how, I trust you,” he tells you. Closing your eyes again, you concentrate. _It’s not real, it’s just a memory. It’s all inside your head._ You peek them open and are met by blackness still. Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.

"No…” you whisper. The cell door creaks open. The nameless man steps inside.

"Hello again,” he smiles wickedly, "Did you miss me?” A match flares into the darkness. It can’t be. Did you just imagine escaping? The nameless man tosses the match onto a cold fireplace in the corner and sparks fly. The dull coals begin to glow as they’re reignited but it’s only enough to make out a shadow of the nameless man’s silhouette. You listen for Sherlock but suddenly you find that you can’t hear him anymore. Your heart begins to pound and your adrenaline kicks in. Gritting your teeth, you shut your eyes against the man, concentrating.

 _It’s just your mind toying with you. It’s not real… It’s not real… IT’S NOT REAL!_ Your eyes snap open. He’s standing directly in front of you, his face mere inches from yours. Laughter bubbles out of you.

"You can’t hurt me. Do you want to know why?” you ask triumphantly.

"Why?” he queries, twirling the iron in his hand.

"Because you’re dead. I stabbed you in the back remember? _I killed you_ ,” you hiss the words at him. His breath suddenly catches and he staggers backward a few steps before toppling forward. Overhead bulbs flicker on, illuminating the cell with fluorescent light, allowing you to see the knife buried between his shoulder blades. You breathe out a sigh of relief. Blinking your eyes, the nameless man disappears.

Sherlock steps out from behind you and circles around to face you. Reality is bleeding through again, you can see parts of the room blending seamlessly with the cell. Your arms are stretched above you but you can’t tell if that’s because of the manacles chaining you to the ceiling of the cell or because you’re gripping the headboard of the bed.

"Sherlock, get me out of these,” you tell him as he watches.

"This is your mind, you have to release yourself. You’re not alone, but you don’t need me. You chose me. And I chose you because of your spirit, your courage, and your stubborn refusal to rely on anyone else.” You stare at him, speechless at his unwavering belief in you. Sherlock leans closer to your ear.

"Think! I gave you something. A promise. A promise to never lose faith in your ability to be free,” Sherlock urges. You twist the ring on your finger, and the lock pick pops out. Straining against your bonds, you manage to slot the lock pick into the keyhole. The manacles open effortlessly for you. You rub your wrists and stand straighter, newly aware of just how powerful you can be. Sherlock is turned away from you, afraid of triggering another memory. But you’re in control now, you know which memories have the most damage, the ones that need to be healed.

In one fluid movement, you pull your sweater over your head instead of waiting for the memory to take it from you. The hooks of your bra come undone easily, and you drop it to the floor.

"You’re right. I don’t need you. But I _want_ you,” you growl, fighting back against the disturbing images. _You fear being seen. They made you feel less than beautiful and you can’t let Sherlock see that._ You take a deep breath, "Sherlock, look at me.”

Slowly he turns to look at you, obeying your wishes. Under the light, there are no shadows for you to hide in. You resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest. Trust. You have to trust him with your vulnerability. Stepping towards Sherlock, he follows you with his eyes. He makes no move towards you, but his gaze caresses the curves of your body. You shiver, flashes of the other men blocking Sherlock out for a moment before you control the memory. His face softens as he watches you shift uncomfortably in front of him.

Sherlock’s eyes don’t have the hungry, predatorial glint in them, that strips you of humanity and diminishes you into prey. Instead, he looks at you reverentially, with wonder. The way he sees you, you don’t feel exposed but rather at ease in your own skin. Seeing you relax, Sherlock approaches cautiously, guarded against another onslaught of flashbacks. He never takes his eyes off you. You take his hands, half covering his long slender fingers with your own, and place them on your breasts. They’re not busty, but petite and small. An advantage because his hands cup perfectly around them. You revel in the sensitivity of his embrace, soft and yet insistent.

Alive, that’s what you feel in that moment, beautifully alive. Sherlock presses his ear against your heart, listening to its beat, sliding his hands to your back. They trace the scars that the doctors weren’t able to heal. It’s like he’s writing a message into your skin. He washes away the pain of the fire with his cool touch. Kneeling, Sherlock exhales into your stomach, leaning his forehead against you. His warm breath tickles you.

"How lucky a man am I, to be your husband?” he marvels, breathing you in, "You are gorgeous. I must be dreaming, goddesses aren’t real.” Your fingers curl into his dark locks, nestling his head against your frame. Tilting his head back into your hands, you look at him.

"Only as lucky as I am to be the wife of a devilishly handsome man who thinks I’m immortal. How I must distort your senses…” A smile on your lips, you brush his cheek and his eyes close.

"It’s not logical,” he murmurs, "But I think that for once in my life, I’ve found something that defies logic.”

"And what’s that?” you prompt.

"You,” he answers simply. You move his hands to your hips, to the waistline of your jeans.

"Make love to me.” He gives a deep rumbling laugh.

"I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.” You yelp surprised to find yourself suddenly airborne. Sherlock lifts you easily and you wrap your legs around his torso. The cold wall provides both support and contrast to his warmth. You’ve kissed Sherlock before, but never like this. It’s passionate bordering on violent as you both resist the psychological scars left on your mind. He holds your face between both hands and you wrap your own around his neck for stability because you’re tilting, tilting father over the edge, caught in that moment before the fall when every fiber of your being burns with awareness. His mouth curves into that unique v-smile of his and you can taste laughter on his lips. Only the necessity for air breaks you apart and your cheek muscles ache from overuse. But this is a sweet pain, the kind of exhaustion that results from too much loving, and you let it steal over you with relief. It soothes the tension from limbs that spent far too long anticipating a crueler touch.

Your head is wrenched back exposing the hollow of your throat. There’s something incredibly intimate about the way he kisses your voice, takes the vibrations from your skin and memorizes the rhythm by the feel of his mouth. The frost on the wall cracks under your shoulder blades as your back bends beneath Sherlock. The hairline fractures spread throughout the structure. You let go of him and brace your hands against the cement wall, digging your fingers into the ice, melting it away with your body heat. This is your prison, and damn it all if you’re not going to claw your way out with passion, love, and grace, the very things they tried to strip you of.

You slide slowly down the wall as Sherlock gently releases you. His hair is in a disarray, looking very much as though he’d just been ravished, or in this case, been the ravisher. His poor button up shirt appears as if it can’t take much more strain. It has a hard enough time containing him on a normal day without this extra wear and tear. You take pity on his clothes, undoing his shirt before it rips and you have to buy him another one for his birthday. He does the same for your jeans although he might be less motivated by concern for their well-being. Sherlock fingers the lace fringe of your nude colored underwear with an amused expression on his face.

"What?” you ask indignantly.

"Doesn’t this defeat the purpose of underwear? It doesn't seem practical,” he explains. You duck your head to hide your face, blushing furiously.

"It was an experiment!” you protest, embarrassed to be called out on your attempt to be sexy. Sherlock catches your chin and lifts your face up.

"That is a really lovely shade of red,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to laugh. Sherlock shakes his head at you, "As if you’d _need_ something to entice me.”

With that, he relieves you of your remaining clothing since you’ve already divested him of his own. Sherlock pushes you back towards the wall and you put up little resistance. For once you’re happy to let him take control. His eyes seem dark, emphasized by his pale countenance. You’re always astonished at how much strength is concealed by his slender frame, an element of surprise that Sherlock has exploited many times. The slight outline of muscles is apparent along his body but he isn’t ripped by any stretch of the imagination. But you’ve always loved that about him, Sherlock is attractive in a more unconventional way.

You suck in a breath as he slides into you and he brushes your cheek encouragingly. Sherlock waits until you’re ready, and only then does he proceed. You bury your face in his neck and shoulders as he rolls his hips. It’s a delicious sensation, your bodies moving in unison. Your legs are wrapped tight around Sherlock’s waist so that when he thrusts upward he also strokes against your clit. In the darkness of your prison, you thought would never want to be touched again. But now you want nothing more than to be touched, to line every inch of your figure with his. Sherlock rolls his hips again, once, twice, three times, repeat. It’s a beautiful rhythm, smooth, like a well-oiled machine. Except that there is nothing mechanical about this. It’s instinctual, but not memorized. The movements known, but unpredictable. It’s like you’re making love again for the first time because it’s so profound.

"You know, you’d think with the intricate knowledge that I have of your anatomy, I wouldn’t be surprised anymore,” Sherlock comments breathlessly between movements, "But you never cease to amaze me Mrs. Holmes. Sex with you is always different. And I never tire of seeing you come undone.”

"Well that’s good,” you laugh, "Then I don’t have to worry about you becoming bored with me and finding a new partner.” He throws you a _not funny_ look.

"You misunderstand. I wouldn’t desire sex if it wasn’t with you.” The fact that he bases his entire sexuality upon you stuns you into silence. In that silence you can hear him thrusting in and out of you, the combined sounds of your low gasps following the pattern. Sherlock seems to know exactly what angle elicits the most pleasurable response from you, where your seams are weakest so that you come apart and unravel. Information he’s probably filed away in his mind palace. You grin thinking about why he wouldn’t have deleted it. The man who once was the inexperienced virgin is now such an expert it’s hard to believe the transformation. You suppose he is a fast learner. The best part? All of his skills are honed especially for you.

Sherlock’s arousal is clear in the flush of his cheeks and you can feel the hardness of his length inside of you. You squeeze him mischieviously, enjoying the low sound that comes out of him. Increasing the pace, you begin to meet him so that he drives deeper. You watch him, wanting to see just how far you can push him, taking advantage of the few moments that Sherlock becomes human and not the calculating detective. But in the end, he succeeds in pushing you over the edge first. You feel it, the tightening in your stomach, the clenching of your muscles around him as your head whips back. Pure pleasure courses through you and then the room shatters.

You’re back in the hotel and the hallucination is gone. Sherlock is poised above you, still hard. You place your hands on his hips aware that he’s close.

"Keep going,” you whisper. He begins to thrust into you again, hitting that single point of pleasure deep within you. You’d heard of multiple orgasms and it seems that Sherlock is going to give you one now. You keep encouraging him, spreading your legs wider than you thought possible, clenching down hard on his shaft and it’s impossible for him to bite back a moan. And then Sherlock comes, with a deep resounding groan and you see stars from peaking with him again. He gives a low laugh.

"The perfect start to a perfect honeymoon.”

  
~

  
Sunlight filters through the blinds of the window, stirring you from your sleep. You peek your eyes open to find Sherlock already lying awake in bed.

"Good morning,” you mumble sleepily.

"Morning love,” he replies. You stay still for a moment, enjoying the sensation of simply lying in bed with Sherlock lazily. It’s a rare opportunity. Half the time you wake up and he’s up conducting some hare-brained scheme in the kitchen and the other half of the time he’s not sleeping because he’s working a case. Then you sit up with a groan, your head adjusting to the rush of blood that makes you feel a bit woozy. Clutching the blanket around you to defend against the chill, you blink your eyes. The bed shifts behind you and Sherlock sits up as well. You appreciate the fact that he does not follow your example of pulling the sheets around him, giving you a welcome view of his upper body. You turn away from him, content to just sit there.

Sherlock begins to idly play with your hair. The feeling is reminiscent of your mother when you were a child and she would fix your hair. You close your eyes, enjoying the sensation. He pulls apart the strands, untangling them. A little while later he stops, and you open your eyes. Reaching behind, you feel what he’s done with your hair. It’s in a perfect fishtail braid.

"Where did you learn to do that?” you ask with an amused laugh.

"I would say it was from a particularly gruesome murder case where a woman was strangled with a braid of her own hair just to impress you but no, I learned it from Youtube,” Sherlock confesses. You raise an eyebrow in disbelief, but you don’t have a chance to respond before Sherlock’s phone rings. Both of you stare at each other for a second before he sighs and answers it.

"John? Yes, what is it? I’m busy… oh,” Sherlock says, his expression changing from annoyed to curious to guilty in a matter of seconds. He glances at you.

"Yes of course, just uh… let me talk to her.” He closes the phone.

"What did John want?” you ask confusedly.

“The Mona Lisa has been stolen. No trace of the thief and the French government specifically requested me…” he grimaces at you, apologetic. You suppose it was a bit naive to think that the world would just stop happening around you while you went on a honeymoon with Sherlock. But then again, it wouldn’t be a real honeymoon if you didn’t solve a case. Shrugging your shoulders, you give him an exasperated smile.

"When I was a child, dreaming of the prince who would ask me to run away with him, I don’t think I could have possibly imagined this. Running through the streets after criminal masterminds with the world’s only consulting detective. It would’ve seemed far-fetched to even my younger self.” Sherlock gives you a shocked expression.

"You think of me as a prince?” he asks.

"Good God no!” you exclaim, playfully throwing your pillow at him, "You act even more superior than _royalty_ , and you're far, far more regal than any prince.”

"Hmmm, is that so?” Sherlock muses, giving you a kiss. You pull away and start to dress in order to go. You throw him his pants which somehow ended up on the other side of the room.

"Well, hurry up then!” you call.

"How is it that my wife is more keen to abandon her honeymoon to solve a case than I am?” Sherlock wonders aloud.

"I am NOT abandoning my honeymoon Sherlock Holmes. We’re merely taking an exciting detour. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see Paris. Don't think that because you’re working a case you can stop eating and functioning like a human being,” you scold, "I intend to take you to bed every night, is that understood?”

"Yes ma’am!”

Pulling together the last of your belongings, Sherlock waits for you at the door. You go to stand by him and he links his fingers with yours. It would be a lie if you said you didn’t feel an intense amount of satisfaction seeing him wear his wedding ring. Sherlock smirks at you and adopts his signature dramatic flair.

"The game, Mrs. Holmes, is on.”


End file.
